by Jim Murphy
“What Iggy means,” Mayor pointed out quickly and calmly, “is that there’s not enough time to work out all the details and test it.”
“I could find some other comics that show . . .”
“Hey, kid,” Squints grumbled ominously. He took off his big black glasses and glared at Al. “No means no, okay? So shut up already. Jeez, why are we still talking to a second grader anyway?”
Tom-Tom leaned toward Al, nodding in agreement. “Sometimes,” he said, “the best results aren’t the most obvious.”
“But this is a big help, Al.” Mayor pointed to the comic book in Iggy’s hands. “So thanks.”
Nothing much happened in class that day or the next. Angelica seemed very tense, and I know I was. I had a feeling she was just waiting for a chance to strike, so I spent most of my time hiding behind Joey Spano and telling myself not to say anything that might get me buried. And daydreaming of absolute revenge.
The daydream went like this. Angelica shows everyone in the auditorium that the alleys are ready to be used. She slides up to the foul line, her sensible shoe hits the tripwire, and down swings the flour bag in a perfect arc. Bam, she gets nailed, and flour dust flies everywhere.
Of course the auditorium goes wild, some cheering, everybody laughing hysterically. Nuns are running every which way, trying to restore order and help the thoroughly dusted Sister Angelica. And then there’s the hunt for me.
This is where my brain took a perfect daydream and ruined it with reality. You see, I’m in the audience with everybody else and enjoying the show, but when I hear the familiar Where is Master Murphy? I freeze and look around. And see that Kathy Gathers is shocked and horrified by what has just happened and is staring at me. Not a loving stare, by the way.
I started wondering if maybe the exploding flour bag might not be the best way to impress Kathy. I even wondered if I should call it off.
But giving up on it wasn’t really an option. Mayor, Iggy, Vero, Squints, Tom-Tom, and Philip had put in a lot of time, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. And think what horrible things Al the Second Grader might cook up to murderlate me for this betrayal! Because that’s what I felt it would be. And then there was Philip. We were doing all this because Angelica seemed to go out of her way to embarrass me and Philip, so I wasn’t sure I had the right to cancel it on my own.
It took a few days, but eventually Iggy said he thought he’d figured out how to take the comic book drawing and make it actually work. Seems the comic book artist had an imagination, especially when it came to blowing stuff up, but not a lot of actual mechanical skill.
I remember hearing Iggy announcing this success and feeling relieved. This whole revenge thing had stretched from day one of school into November, and I wanted it over with. Plus it was constantly eating up money (mine!). Yes, the trigger device needed several pieces of hardware.
So on we went, day after day, until the Monday in the second week of November, when two developments came to my attention. Before school, Mayor told me that he and his crew would install the exploding flour ball, fishing line, and trigger device at noon. Then later that day a message arrived from Sister Mary Brian saying the trial performance of the entire show would happen on Wednesday afternoon. A little sooner than expected.
Next, Bernie threw a wrench into the works (that “threw a wrench into the works” is a phrase I spotted in “Common English Phrases and Their Origins and Meanings,” in the Language Arts book, in case you’re wondering where it came from). Anyway, he came down to the auditorium on Monday to discover a bunch of first graders sliding on his newly finished, very shiny bowling alleys, scuffing them with their black rubber-soled shoes. He got them off and immediately declared an emergency. When Mayor and the guys showed up later to get the stage cleared and make sure the curtain worked, Bernie was on his hands and knees buffing out the black marks on the alleys and muttering darkly.
“Some of you boys can move those boxes up to the first-floor storage area. I’ll need one of you”—he pointed to Mayor—“to help me rope off the alleys so these little hooligans don’t mark them up any more before Wednesday.” He glared sharply at the little kids who were standing innocently to the side, waiting to rehearse.
While the others wrestled boxes up the stairs, Mayor set up four wooden posts (which were really the ends of a stage prop fence), one at every corner of the alleys. Bernie took a long spool of yellow plastic police ribbon that repeated the words CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS over and over, and he and Mayor tied the ribbon to the posts. The good news, Mayor reported later, was that Bernie was still annoyed with the little kids and was constantly scowling at them, so he hadn’t noticed the eye hooks. The bad news was that Bernie hung around the stage to protect his alleys, so the fishing line, exploding ball, and triggering device couldn’t be attached and armed (that’s the word Iggy used).
When I heard that the device hadn’t been rigged, I must have looked stunned. Mayor worked hard to keep me calm. “Iggy thinks it’s still doable. Right, Iggy?”
“Absolutely. The eye hooks are in, and the ceiling cord is the perfect length and in perfect position. The fishing line is cut to the exact size and painted and ready to go.” He shrugged. “All I have to do is get the fishing line tied to the first eye hook and threaded through the rest of the eye hooks, and get the scenery cord over the alley with the ball attached.” It all sounded like an overwhelming amount of work to me, but Iggy said confidently, “Maybe tomorrow—we’ll see.”
Unfortunately, the daydream kept reappearing to haunt me, especially the Kathy Gathers part. What would happen if I was eventually connected to the prank? Not good. What would happen to me? Probably painfully not good. And how would my parents take it? Especially not good. And what would Kathy Gathers think of me? Really, really not good at all.
After thinking this over (and over and over), I understood that it all came down to which was more important: getting revenge or still having a chance with Kathy. I felt like I was on a giant seesaw—one second, revenge was what I wanted, the next it was not to make Kathy think I was even more of a loser than she already did. Up, down, up, down . . .
On Tuesday, Mayor reported that they had managed to sneak two balls into the auditorium (the second in case the first one suddenly deflated) and got one attached to the cord. Iggy was able to tie fishing line to one eye hook and thread it through the others, but Bernie came back and hovered around again, so he couldn’t rig up the triggering device. And Iggy still wasn’t one hundred percent sure it would work. When I asked for the odds on it working, he said fifty-fifty. Anyway, the final hookup would have to wait until Wednesday—the day of the big rehearsal.
20
JUMP!!!!
ON WEDNESDAY just before noon, Sister Angelica told Mayor, Iggy, Squints, Philip, and Tom-Tom that they should go directly to the auditorium to help Bernie and have lunch later. I was left on my own to stew and wonder what was happening.
I got to the cafeteria, took a tray, and slid it along the rails without taking anything. I was too nervous to eat. My cousin Sophia offered me a new menu item that looked strangely lime green and lumpy, and I passed on it as politely as possible. Then I noticed that Sister Rose Vincent wasn’t guarding the door.
I wanted to know what was going on with the exploding flour ball, and I was feeling the seesaw tilting toward requesting a delay. This was my “better safe than sorry” position. Since I wasn’t sure what would happen afterward (especially with Kathy) if it worked, I took a weaselly approach. I even came up with a way to convince the guys: we would delay so we could have time to plan what to do post-revenge. With Rose Vincent gone, now was my chance to slip out and get to the auditorium. I put my tray back and walked out the door as if I were on some very important mission. Head up, a slight I’m not up to anything smile on my face in case one of the nuns on aisle patrol spotted me.
There were several routes to choose from. I decided to go the most direct way, across the small outdoor cour
tyard that connects the new and old schools. I could zip down to the auditorium, talk the guys into a slight delay, and zip back up in just a minute or two. So out I went.
As the landing door clicked closed behind me, I started to walk slowly across the courtyard. It couldn’t have been any more than seventy-five feet to the door I was heading toward. It was probably locked, but kids often went up and down the steps to go to the bathroom, and I hoped to get one of them to push it open for me. I was halfway there when I heard the basement door to the convent squeak open.
A moment of panic followed, and then my brain screamed HIDE! Luckily, this was where the few sad-looking green plants at St. Stephen’s existed—two anemic pine trees and some scraggly sticker bushes. I squeezed past a sticker bush that was as friendly as Al’s punji sticks and ducked behind one of the trees. Whoever had come out of the convent would probably disappear inside the school in a matter of seconds.
I was standing there waiting for the person’s exit when I heard this hollow boing-boing sound. There was a pause and then the boing-boing-boing happened again. Strange, I thought.
The boing-boing repeated a third time, followed by a metallic thump. It sounded as if someone was shooting baskets. In addition to the hoops in the auditorium, there was an ancient basketball hoop in this courtyard that no one, as far as I remember, had ever used. It didn’t even have a rope netting, it was so old. But who was shooting baskets now?
Curiosity killed the cat, but that bit of folk wisdom didn’t stop me. I leaned forward and gently pushed some evergreen branches aside. All I could see was that the person was wearing a long, flowing black robe. A nun shooting baskets?
This was so odd, I had to see which nun it was. I leaned forward some more. I took a step, then another, and stuck my head out even farther. What I saw was a nun taking a really lame two-handed, flat-footed shot that missed the rusted hoop completely.
I took another tentative step forward to get a better view. The crack from something I stepped on caused the boing-boing to stop cold.
“Who’s there?” asked an all-too-familiar voice. There was a pause. “I know someone is there, so please come out now.”
There was no mistaking it. I was caught and trapped. I stepped out from behind the pine tree and said, “Um, it’s only me, Sister.”
“Master Murphy?” Sister Angelica Rose stood there in the middle of the courtyard clutching a basketball and looking completely baffled. “Why were you hiding there?”
“Um . . .” I wanted to buy time to think up a good response, but instead I blurted out, “I came out because it was hot inside and then I heard the convent door open and I got scared, so I hid there.” I gestured toward the trees. Well, it was sort of true, so that might make it less of a sin.
There was an awkward pause as Sister Angelica studied me. She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look absolutely annoyed, either. And trust me, I knew what her absolutely annoyed look looked like.
Then, out of nowhere, she said, “I’m considering starting a girls’ basketball club next year. After Christmas vacation. But I don’t know much about basketball.” Another pause. “Do you know how to play basketball?”
Now, this question came as a complete surprise. It almost sounded as if she were asking for my help. “Um, a little.”
“Did you see me shoot?” she asked.
“A little.” You have to admit I had a way with words, especially when faced with what might turn out to be a fatal encounter.
She gave me a look that suggested I needed to say more. “And?”
“Well,” I began, “you pushed the ball two-handed. Like a girl. And you are a girl, I guess, but . . . but that’s not how you should shoot a basket. And you didn’t really jump. I mean, it’s called a jump shot, and you’re supposed to, um, you know, jump when you shoot.”
On top of the weirdness of a nun shooting baskets, here I was explaining a jump shot—one hand guides the ball while the other pushes it toward the basket, and you actually get on your toes and jump—even though I wasn’t very good at basketball. Iggy, Squints, Tom-Tom, and Mayor were way better than me. But for my survival I thought I should offer some help. Maybe it would become the first positive comment ever in my red folder.
But I was squirming. I wanted to be away from Sister Angelica and this basketball lesson.
Angelica took a few shots, and all of them fell way short. She was pushing the ball off better, but she never actually got off her feet. She looked as if she weighed a thousand pounds and was glued to the ground.
Then my brain took over again, and I was remembering the red folder incident, being sent to the back of the class and embarrassed in front of Kathy Gathers, ending up as the Green Banana, having to rewrite a silly thank-you letter over and over again, and how she humiliated Philip. And feeling increasingly annoyed. No, angry. So angry it felt as if my brain had expanded and was pressing against the inside of my skull. I told you before that my brain jumped around for no reason and got me into trouble.
Angelica bounced the ball several times, then stared at the rusty hoop, raised the ball, and . . . and . . . I exploded. “For God’s sake, JUMP!!!!” I screamed. And she did.
You never raise your voice to a nun. That’s an unwritten rule everyone knows. And here I was, angry and yelling at her and bringing God into it, too. I was going to hell, no doubt about it. But Sister Angelica did manage to launch the ball in a high arc, and it sailed toward the hoop.
And go figure, it went through without touching iron. No sound whatsoever. A perfect shot.
The ball hit the pavement and went boing-boing-boing as it bounced along. Angelica didn’t say a thing. I didn’t say a thing.
Then she did one of the nastiest, cruelest things she had done to me all year. She turned, looked me square in the eyes, and smiled.
21
Now What?
A SMILE IS a good thing, I’m told. It suggests that the smiler is friendly and reasonably happy. A smile is cost-free and doesn’t require a lot of work or muscle power, and it means the receiver of the smile probably won’t be hit anytime soon. All good. So why did I find Angelica’s smile so cruel and nasty?
She’d never actually smiled in class that I could remember. Certainly not in my direction. Plus that cardboard coif thing she wore made her look pinched and crabby and old. Not Sister Immaculata ancient old, but oldish.
The smile changed her face entirely. The lines near her eyes and the sides of her mouth vanished. Her eyes actually seemed to sparkle with fun. Fun! She looked a lot younger, too. In fact, she suddenly seemed not much older than the high school girls I passed on the way home.
And this is why that smile was an especially bad thing. When I thought about the high school girls, I wondered if Sister Angelica had ever worn a short plaid skirt and tight sweater. And what she might look like in them. And this prompted an image of Sister Angelica dressed in such an outfit to flash in my noodle.
I would have put exclamation points at the end of that last sentence, but they would have had to take up at least ten pages of this book. The image was in my mind for only a second or two—like a mortar explosion—but believe me, it made my brain scream and go blank. Thinking it, seeing it, remembering it was definitely a major-league sin, and I was sure that a dark, avenging cloud would appear above me and that the Almighty Himself would emerge and cleave me top to bottom with some sort of wicked-looking ax. I waited to hear the rumble of thunder that would announce the cloud’s arrival.
Then my brain began to clear, and all I was facing was Angelica and she was still smiling. Then her expression changed. “Is everything all right, James?”
“Ah, yeah. I mean, yes, Sister.” Actually, since the cloud hadn’t appeared and I was still alive, I had started wondering what my red folder would look like after the addition of “he screamed at me using God’s name in vain” and “he imagined me in a plaid skirt and tight sweater.” I assumed she would know about the outfit thought through cosmic nun pow
er.
“Good. You looked distressed.” She turned to face the hoop, picked up the ball, and made ready to shoot again. “So I guide the ball with one hand, shoot with the other, and jump when I do that.”
I didn’t say a thing.
She jumped and launched the ball in a high arc. This time the ball hit the front lip of the rim, bounced off the backboard, landed on the side of the rim, and started rolling around. When it slowed enough, it fell in. She retrieved the ball and came back to shoot again with a very satisfied look on her face.
“Is there anything else that might help me shoot better?” she asked, facing away from me as she set up for her next shot.
“Yes. Wear sneakers.” Which was true. She and every other nun wore these clunky sensible black shoes with a little heel. But as soon as it was out of my mouth, I had a feeling it sounded sarcastic, so I rushed to make it good. “You can get black high-top sneakers, so no one would know you had them on.”
She laughed a little (also a first this year), jumped, and shot. This time the ball hit the rim and bounced off.
“Hmmm,” she said. “I prefer red.”
Red? I thought. Red high-tops? Now that was a surprise, but maybe not any more than a nun shooting baskets and bowling.
She took several more shots. Some went in, some didn’t. And I offered bits of advice, such as reminding her to shoot the ball in a nice high arc.
Suddenly she tucked the ball under her arm and spun to face me. “I have an idea, James,” she said, looking serious. “I’m going to try to start a girls’ basketball league in the auditorium next February. Maybe you could come by and give us some pointers. Like the ones you gave me today. What do you think?”
She said this in a perfectly nice way, mind you. It was a real question, not a question that was a command. But it made me very nervous anyway. Things hadn’t gone too well in the classroom so far this year, and you never know what might happen after school out in the open auditorium. I think I hemmed and hawed a few seconds before an idea came to me. “I’m actually not very good at basketball. I don’t even know much about the game.” She looked disappointed, so I tossed in “But Mayor and Iggy and Tom-Tom and Squints are pretty good.”